


A Remedy to Cure All Ills

by graves_expectations



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Common Cold, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, M/M, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, well some kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 11:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations
Summary: Everything he’d tried to hold onto for his own before Percival had either been snatched from his grasp or slipped through his fingers like sand. Now, he’s being given more riches than his hands can possibly carry and Percivalstillinsists on piling them up with more.





	A Remedy to Cure All Ills

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short prompt fill for [minyitheraccoon](http://minyitheraccoon.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. I hope you like extreme fluff! I know the prompt was 'subtle' kindnesses, and these are probably... not all that subtle :D

Credence wakes from his nap to the clinking of glass bottles knocking together and Percival muttering what sounds like a list of ingredients to himself from the direction of the kitchen. A pleasant warmth spreads through Credence then, the sensation utterly different to the sweaty, creeping fever that grips him. He smiles fondly at the continued grumbling he can hear from Percival and the knowledge that he’s come _home_ now from the apothecary, which he had left for earlier with some reluctance even though Credence assured him that he would be fine, he’d just go to sleep.

Percival is a worrier, he’s learned. Not over much in life, generally—he has his concern for his colleagues and the Magical community he protects so fiercely through his work, but his concern for Credence is something else and it’s _boundless_. It makes Credence’s head spin still, being the subject of that much loving care and attention.

He stretches out on the sofa, languid, pleased, and then snuggles back into the blanket covering him with a sigh. Despite his blocked nose and scratchy throat, he feels truly content. The feeling is only slightly marred by the small coughing fit he then proceeds to have.

Percival walks into the room at that, frowning, with a number of vials clutched in his hands and his wand relegated to being clenched between his teeth. He sets his load down on the table beside the sofa, frees his mouth by tucking his wand inside his jacket, and comes over to check Credence’s temperature. His broad palm is cool against Credence’s fevered brow and the touch feels like a blessing. Credence shuts his eyes at the contact, letting out a little gasp.

“You’re still burning up,” Percival says, regret in his tone. “The potion won’t be done for about half an hour yet. I can’t believe I let my store of Mandrake root get so low that I had to waste time going out to buy more.”

“It’s just a cold,” Credence says, still pressing his forehead into Percival’s hand, even though it’s already turned hot against his flushed skin. “It’s hardly urgent.”

Percival huffs in a way that says he thinks otherwise and Credence’s heart almost _hurts_ because it simply lacks the capacity to hold all of his affection for Percival and his fussy, overprotective ways.

Credence knows he’s desperately young compared with Percival—in age and experience both—he knows that a world of possibility is opening up to him now where before every window and door had been locked shut. With the keeper of those keys dead and gone, he knows he’ll learn new things and meet new people and travel to new places. He knows all of this, but equally he knows that, no matter where his feet take him in this new life, his heart won’t follow.

He’s certain he’ll never love anyone else as much as he does this wonderful, careful man in this moment. He could live to be a hundred and he still wouldn’t feel this same specific ache for anyone else, he doesn’t think.

“I want to give you the world,” Percival once said to him and, through his every action since, he has.

Credence could measure his time with Percival in the myriad acts of kindness bestowed upon him. All those hours of smiles and awkward jokes to uplift him and quiet, firm encouragements to always be proud of himself. Countless days where Percival brought home little gifts and said _this made me think of you_ or _I hope you’ll like this_. Unending months of him healing every injury Credence picked up, hands erasing the hurt with eyebrows drawn together as though he was annoyed by the very idea of Credence having to suffer even a minor scrape. A year now, that’s the amount of time by a calendar—a year of a gentle hand pressed to his shoulder on the way out the door or (later, when they’d worked some things out and opened their hearts and shared their bodies) a soft mouth to his lips or cheek.

Credence hardly knows what to do with it all. Everything he’d tried to hold onto for his own before Percival had either been snatched from his grasp or slipped through his fingers like sand. Now, he’s being given more riches than his hands can possibly carry and Percival _still_ insists on piling them up with more.

For the first time in his life, Credence understands what it is to be adored and he could never leave the cause of that behind. No promise of any treasure could lure him away from the one he’s already found.

With these tender thoughts buzzing away below Percival’s hand on his brow, Credence succumbs and falls back into the welcoming arms of sleep.

The next time he stirs, groggy and disorientated, Percival is there to calm him. His hands encourage Credence to sit up and then provide him with a glass containing an orange-coloured potion that Credence knows well. He’s used to it already being brewed at the first sign of a sore throat or sniffle.

Percival smiles at the jets of steam that issue from Credence’s ears when he’s swallowed all of the liquid. The side-effect stops within a minute or so—Percival once proudly told him that he has his own way of brewing Pepper-up Potion to minimise that inconvenience.

“This is the last time I allow the Goldsteins to have you for a weekend if _this_ is how they return you,” Percival grumbles once all the steam is gone, settling himself on the sofa at Credence’s side.

He sits close enough that Credence can lean on him and Credence does so without hesitation, folding himself up and burrowing into Percival with knees pressed to his thighs, his head coming to rest over Percival’s heart. He closes his eyes and listens to the steady thump of it, trying to match his own congested breaths to the rise and fall of Percival’s chest beneath his ear.

“You _allow_ them to have me?” he asks. “Like I’m some kind of treat?”

“Exactly,” Percival says. He sounds perfectly serious, but Credence knows by now when he’s only playing at it for Credence’s amusement. “And they’ve shown appalling gratitude for my sacrifice. How long have you been unwell?”

“The sore throat started on Saturday.” It’s resolving already now thanks to the fast-acting potion and there’s no longer any grinding in his throat with every word spoken, at least. His voice is still thick, but it’s improving as his nose begins to clear.

“Saturday,” Percival tuts. “And here we are on Sunday evening. No, there’s nothing for it. I’ll just have to keep you to myself where I know you’re being cared for properly in future.”

He’s obviously teasing now, but there’s an edge of genuine possessiveness to his words that makes Credence squirm against him. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he says. It’s an easy admission to give.

His sincerity must have been audible because there's a drawn out pause before Percival sighs and strokes a hand over his hair. The drag of his fingers makes Credence’s scalp tingle. “Oh, sweetness, you don’t mean that. But you’re a darling for playing along with me.”

Credence lifts his head to look up at him. “I love you,” he says, a simple fact. Water is wet. “I do mean it, I always want to be with you.”

“But not at the exclusion of anything else.” Percival’s expression is insistent, his eyes hard and jaw firm.

There he goes, worrying again. Credence rolls his eyes at him. It’s a gesture he’d never even _made_ before he came to be with Percival and the sheer carelessness of it gives him a rush each time he does it.

“I’m not _that_ keen on you,” he says, grinning.

Percival opens his mouth in exaggerated mock-outrage before he closes it again, returns Credence’s smile for a few seconds, and then tips his head down to kiss him.

Credence welcomes it, mouth parting under Percival’s almost automatically before he remembers. “You’ll get sick!”

“Don’t care,” Percival replies, voice low and heated, and then he leans in to kiss him again.

Credence is helpless to do anything _but_ kiss back in the face of that. Without breaking their lips apart, he winds his arms around Percival’s neck and twists up and over him to sit in his lap with his thighs bracketing Percival’s legs. At once, Percival’s hands find his waist.

It doesn’t matter if he _does_ get sick, Credence thinks dizzily—they have plenty of excess Pepper-up Potion brewed now, after all.


End file.
